ready to comply
by tribbletrash
Summary: longing. rusted. seventeen. daybreak. furnace. nine. benign. homecoming. one. freight car. Bucky's trigger words, and the stories behind them. (Steve/Bucky before WW2 and Bucky as the Winter Soldier, trigger warning for torture/murder/other Winter Soldier things. Follows a non-linear timeline, each chapter is a separate memory based on one of Bucky's trigger words.)
1. longing

" _Fuck,"_ Steve murmured, wincing in pain.

"Don't scrunch up your forehead like that, you're gonna mess the stitches up," Bucky said, pulling the bloodsoaked thread through Steve's forehead a little more gently that time. "You sure you don't want me to take you to the hospital?" he added. "I'm... not very good at this." He gestured vaguely at the jagged row of stitches he'd sewed the gash in Steve's forehead with. His only prior experience with anything of the sort had been sewing a shirt he'd torn in a fight before his mother could find out- needless to say, this was nothing like that.

"No, this is fine, it's fine. And honestly," Steve added in a low tone, "I don't think we could foot the bill, so."

They sat in relative silence for a while, the awkwardness of that last statement hanging almost tangibly between them, the quiet punctuated only by Steve's seemingly endless stream of profanities any time Bucky put in a new stitch.

Steve finally broke the quiet. "Look, I'm really sorry about this."

"What, you getting the shit beaten out of yourself, or me having to clean you up?"

"Both, I guess. Won't happen again."

At this, Bucky laughed so hard he had to put the needle down. "Let me get this straight," he wheezed. "You, Steven Grant Rogers, just told me you wouldn't get in another fight?"

"Okay, okay, I take it back!" Steve, too, was grinning uncontrollably, despite the fact that there was still a gaping, half-sewn cut in his forehead.

And it was at exactly that moment, looking fondly at a laughing but thoroughly beaten Steve, that Bucky realized he was in love. Maybe he had been for a while.

He realized on some other level that he probably should feel ashamed, that he should hate himself, maybe even hate Steve for making him like this, but he didn't. He likely would later, but for now, he just felt sort of warm inside, and his face was kind of hot- he was probably blushing. In that moment, loving Steve Rogers just felt right, like this was destined to happen, and he didn't want anyone, himself included, to take that away from him.

And he knew that Steve would definitely never feel the same way about him, that Steve might even hate Bucky for being like this, but he figured that was a problem for another time- just a dull pain in the back of his chest he'd ignore for as long as possible. And hopefully, he could ignore this forever- get over this feeling, marry a dame, maybe move into a Brooklyn apartment near Steve. (That, he knew, was not a very good getting-over-it thought, but he'd work on that.) So no one would know, least of all Steve. And he hated having to keep something that huge from Steve, but it was for their own good, really.

Suddenly, the hating himself thing began to kick in.

"You alright?" Steve had evidently noticed Bucky's laughter tapering off into silence. "You look funny."

"Says the guy with a row of hand-sewn stitches in his forehead," Bucky retorted, forcing a smile.

"Says the guy who sewed them." Steve, the little shit, smirked. "Not your best comeback. But really, are you okay?" He looked genuinely concerned, but Bucky wasn't about to let anything slip.

"I'm fine, I'm fine. Just not a fan of being covered in your blood."

"Yeah, well, me neither."


	2. rusted

In theory, one cannot feel pain in a limb that was not one's own. But theory, apparently, does not always translate into reality.

The Soldier winces, picking at his arm with a small screwdriver. He's not sure why he thought he would be able to fix this- the only thing he's ever been taught to repair is weaponry. But then again, it is a weapon, isn't it?

The offending injury is a large patch of rust on his shoulder. It's a mottled orange patch stretching over most of the scarlet star, something he's almost glad for- that symbol is a part of him he wouldn't mind rotting. The arm hasn't been the same since the incident at the Potomac- he figures some water worked its way inside and corroded the metal. (Normally, Hydra would patch him up after a mission like that, but he'd rather have both his arms wither away than let them touch him again.) The spot's been there and growing for nearly a week now, but he hasn't bothered with it till today. He's letting himself fall apart, probably in more ways than one.

He jimmies the screwdriver around a little until a panel pops open. His phantom flesh screams in pain, but he grits his teeth and attempts to ignore it. The wiring seems to be in place as far as he can tell- the only issue is that most of it is rotted all the way through.

The Soldier sighs heavily, closing the hatch. He flexes his fingers, just to check if they're still working- they seem a little slow to move, but maybe that's just in his head.

He's not sure what he'll do- there's no one in Romania who'll fix the world's deadliest assassin's greatest weapon, even if said assassin is verysorry about the whole murder business. He supposes he'll just let himself rot.

The funny thing is, it's almost hard to make himself give a damn at this point. What's the big deal about a broken arm when, given a few months, the authorities are going to find him. To kill him.

And on his darkest days, he thinks that's probably better than dying one piece at a time, than the slow but steady mental collapse that's accompanied his escape and his arm's affliction. Sometimes he thinks maybe he'll finish the job himself rather than give them the satisfaction. Heis the world's deadliest assassin, after all- what's one last kill to him?


	3. seventeen

**JULY 4TH, 1935**

"Aaaand keep your arms and legs in the carriage at _all times_ ," the Ferris wheel operator drawled, closing and locking the cage door. "That means you," he added, nodding his head at Steve, who held his hands up in a _who, me?_ sort of gesture. His troublemaking tendencies must have showed on his face.

The ride started out slow and rickety, their carriage creaking slightly in the late evening wind. Steve threaded his fingers through the wire caging, restlessly looking around, but seemed to find nothing to captivate his interest, and slouched back in his seat. "Should've gotten one of those swinging carriages," he said, pointing at the couple in the cart beside them, swaying back and forth wildly and screaming with joy. "This is kinda boring."

"You kidding?" Bucky shook his head. "Those are an extra twenty cents. Not worth it."

"I _have_ twenty cents-"

"Yeah, but remember the Cyclone last year?"

Steve looked green just remembering it. "Fair enough."

The wheel creaked on quietly for another minute or so, the two sitting knee to knee in the cramped space, staring out over the Atlantic Ocean in the distance.

They'd just about reached the top when Bucky suddenly pointed out over the water. "Look."

Red, white, and blue fireworks were exploding over the Manhattan horizon, vibrant neon against the starless sky. Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky watched a soft smile spread across Steve's face.

And very suddenly, very quickly, Steve leaned over and kissed Bucky.

His lips were soft, and warmer than Bucky could have ever imagined, and it was over all too fast.

Steve tore himself away after a mere half second, possibly less, leaving Bucky frozen in shock, his lips slightly parted as if to say something, or maybe just to kiss Steve back. Only the muffled sounds of faraway fireworks filled the silence.

Steve, however, had his lips tightly pursed, and was searching Bucky's eyes for some sort of answer. The reckless idiocy of what he'd done seemed to be hitting him all at once. "If, if you're not..." he began, eyes lowered. The words alone might seem like a threat, but his tone was pitiful, pleading. "If you don't..." He seemed unable to finish either question. "Just please don't tell anyone," he sighed, leaning back and closing his eyes in fear or shame or some ugly combination of the two.

Bucky shook his head fervently. "No, no. I won't tell." He laughed in an odd sort of way, entirely void of mirth, but not humourless, either. Probably just embarrassment. "Actually, I-"

But before he could finish his sentence, the Ferris wheel clunked to a stop. The attendant threw the door open and began the usual _we-hope-you-enjoyed-riding-with-us_ spiel. The pair slipped back into the Coney Island crowd, unable to continue their conversation.

"That was fun," Bucky eventually said, words awkward, stiff, and precisely chosen. "We should do that again sometime."

"What, the Ferris wheel?" Steve asked, clearly startled out of a daydream.

Bucky rolled his eyes. "Not that."

"You mean- oh. That." There was a slight pink tinge to Steve's cheeks.

"Yeah. That." Bucky laughed. "Happy birthday, Steve."


End file.
